L'Aimant - Chap 38 (M)
by GiuliettaC
Summary: (M-rated version of Chapter 38 of "L'Aimant". For the T-rated version of this chapter - and indeed for all other chapters of this fic - go to the story entitled, simply, "L'Aimant".) A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense. Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.


**L'Aimant – Chapter 38 (M)**

**Summary:**

(M-rated version of Chapter 38 of "L'Aimant")

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 38: _Foyle returns to Hastings via Sedlescombe, and puts a final seal on his working relationship with Sam.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

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**Author's Notes:**

For the **T-rated version of this chapter**, (and indeed for all other chapters of this fic), go to the story entitled, simply, "**L'Aimant**".

…

Some English surnames have survived the march of time, and are still written with an initial double-f instead of a capital F. It's an affectation, but a charming one, eh? DCS ffoyle? Perhaps not. But it _is_ still done.

…

_dancesabove _– thanks for the millionth time for eagle eye and lovely suggestions/additions.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_Foyle twisted in his seat to face Georgina. He could see she was upset. _

_"What sort of state's he in then, Georgie?"_

"Well," she began tentatively, "not half bad in himself. I got back awfully late last night, but I was so relieved to see him, you can't imagine."

_Foyle supposed he could._

_"Andrew sends his love, of course," she went on. "He doesn't think they'll let him fly again, because he's suffering from nasty headaches all the time, which would apparently get worse at altitude. So now he's fretting to be useful in some other way. I'm hoping he can get some leave and visit home."_

_Foyle frowned, then tamping down his better judgement, felt for her hand and squeezed it. "As am I. And, selfishly, immensely glad he's grounded."_

_Georgie smiled in satisfaction. "He __**said**__ you'd say that. I am, too. Immensely glad, I mean. I wish you'd heard him over New Year. It was quite clear that he'd had his fill. And now he's agitating to get back up in the air again. Can __**you **__understand him, Christopher?" She gazed at her gloved hand in his._

_Foyle latched onto his inside cheek, considering the question. "MmmWell, in fact... um. Yes, I do. He gets a bit of that from me. We're stubborn types when we decide we won't do certain things. But tell us that we __**can't**__, and it becomes a different matter."_

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**Chapter 38**

**Friday, 26****th**** January, 1945**

The route to Sedlescombe was well ingrained in Anselm's brain, including the obligatory detour through some country lanes avoiding Tonbridge. Anselm never had a problem over detours, due to an inbuilt compass that came of ten years' service in a military force obsessive in its love of dropping soldiers in the wilderness, and expecting them to find their way back home. He'd done it in the Scottish Highlands and he'd done it in the Brecon Beacons once or twice. And he'd done it across Nazi-occupied Northern France, armed with a smattering of _parlez-vous_ and a big sharp knife. Fighter pilots with his sort of record sported fuselages plastered with a dozen decorative swastikas, and Anselm could've added two—no, three—of Marshal Pétain's Vichy standards to the list of obstacles he'd cleared along the way.

But the major obstacle in mountain exercises had been visibility, which meant he'd grown the skill of smelling which direction was the right one without concentrating too much where his feet went. And that was just as well, because he'd only just turned off the main road to avoid his old friends on the Home Guard's road-block north of Tonbridge, when the boss's son's fiancée finished bending Mr Foyle's ear and decided it was _his_ turn for a bit of chatter.

"We've moved off the beaten track now, Mr Anselm." Georgie leant forwards and grasped the seat-back on either side of his ears, peering over his shoulder through the windscreen.

"For a bit, Miss. Main road gets a little busy." He could see his boss reclined into the corner where the rear seat met the doorframe, and the man's expression read _'I'm off the hook; it's your turn now'_.

Anselm's answer was hardly what you'd call a conversation opener—just the minimum to be polite—but Georgie saw it as an opportunity to make him her best friend. How did he find the steering on the Lanchester? What sort of acceleration did this car have? Had he ever driven a Rolls?

"Mustn't talk _and_ drive on country lanes, Miss. But the answer's yes. I've driven a Rolls." Anselm didn't tell her that it was an ancient armoured car, destined for the scrap yard because you couldn't get the tyres to fit it any more. It didn't hurt for her to think he was a driver by profession.

His boss had sent a telegram ahead to Sedlescombe two days before, providing Lady Messinger with some warning of their visit, but as Anselm pulled up on the gravel drive at their destination, they were greeted by a new face. A woman, in his estimation nearer his boss's age than Lady Messinger's, well turned-out and genteel in the mould of English women with a bit of money. He noted that his boss eyed the woman cautiously, and Mr Foyle's instruction to Georgina was a firm one as he left the car: "Stay with Anselm. Take your cues from him."

Anselm swivelled in his seat, giving the young woman a reassuring nod. "Be all right, Miss. Best to just keep mum while Mr Foyle ties up some loose ends. We'll be on our way in no time."

"Mr Foyle?" the lady's voice was nervous but cajoling—like a woman on a mission to preserve the status quo by being friendly to insurgents. "Yes, of course you are," she answered her own question. "Anne has said we should expect you. My name is Barbara fforbes-Brown. I am Lady Messinger's sister."

She reached out her hand, and Foyle shook it with a polite "How do you do,"

"Sorry to intrude at this sad time," ventured Foyle, confident that by now things were moving forward for the burial. He had spoken to the undertaker, Towner, on Wednesday.

"Can't be helped, I imagine." Mrs fforbes-Brown raised her chin and sized up Anselm, who had just emerged from the driver's seat and was standing by the Lanchester. Then she ducked to peer inside the car, where Georgie was still seated, and seeing the young woman, straightened up again.

"Please, come inside," she said, "and bring your little party with you. It's a cold day to be waiting out-of-doors."

Foyle thanked her, summoning his companions with a nick of the head.

"So," resumed his guide, "I understand you worked with Giles?" She gave him an openly inquiring look, inviting details.

"Not closely, Mrs fforbes-Brown, but our paths did cross professionally."

"Ah. I see," she sighed in disappointment. "Then you're a token presence. Well, Anne appears to want to speak to you, so who am I to argue?"

They followed her through the entrance hall and past a large high-ceilinged room, previously unvisited, where the door stood open. There on the large mahogany dining table stood a plain pine coffin—closed, Foyle noted, not without relief. At its head was a menorah.

He saw Georgie's eyes stretch and her mouth drop open as they passed, and placed a hand upon her shoulder with deliberate force, catching her eye to forestall the question he saw forming on her lips.

Georgie winced apologetically and made a finger-and-thumb buttoning gesture against her mouth. Being a step or two ahead of them, Mrs fforbes-Brown fortunately missed the broad display.

Foyle turned to summon Anselm with a silent glance before walking ahead and falling into step beside their lead.

Accepting the mute order from his boss, Anselm drew parallel with Georgie, whose head was roughly level with his shoulder, and remained within an inch or two of her as they brought up the rear.

Lady Messinger received Foyle at the entrance to the salon, and addressed her sister. "Giles's work, Barbara," she told her simply. "A few things to discuss. So, if you'd be so kind...?"

Nodding her understanding, Mrs fforbes-Brown steered the others downstairs. "Mrs Andrews will make you some tea," Foyle heard her say, as they descended.

Once Anne Messinger had closed the door so that they were alone, she turned to Foyle and fixed him with a soft look of appeal.

"Well Mr Foyle, I've honoured our agreement to be patient. You promised me the truth, and now I hope to hear it. Sit down, won't you?"

Foyle thanked her, and waited for Anne Messinger to take her seat before lowering himself into the facing armchair.

"I need hardly tell you, Lady Anne," he began cautiously, "the panic that your husband's death sowed in The Service, and the—um—implications, had the suspicion of foul play turned out to be well-founded. The handling of your husband's death has called for measured prudence."

Anne Messinger's gaze was unblinking. "What are you trying to tell me, Mr Foyle? That Giles' death was straightforward, after all?"

"Lady Messinger." Foyle's face, for once, was a blank canvas. "Yet again, a tragic death in your family has been overshadowed by... I'm sorry to say... _unnecessary_ complications. Our suspicions were... nnnot supported by the forensic evidence. Cause of death? His heart stopped, Lady Anne. In other words. His time had come."

Lady Messinger continued to examine his face. "_How_ many weeks to come to this conclusion, Mr Foyle?"

"The Department mill grinds slowly, Lady Anne."

Her brows puckered in distress. "And we are human grist under the millstone?"

"Your husband..."—Foyle splayed his hands in appeal—"understood _that_… better than most. Whilst inexcusable in peace time, the delay is perhaps more understandable in time of war. I've done my best to set influential minds at rest, and oil the bureaucratic wheels preventing you from... moving forward."

She sighed in resignation. "I realise you must have, yes, Mr Foyle, and thank you. Mr Towner has explained that you were the one who arranged for Giles to be released to us for burial. Apart from you, the Department has behaved impenetrably to me. There has been no trace of human concern, aside from your visits."

Foyle looked up at her, shock apparent in his features. "My apologies. My understanding was that you had been visited personally at the start of all this."

"I _was_... but it was more in the nature of eliciting a promise from me not to make a fuss. They feared unnecessarily, Mr Foyle. I _never_ make a fuss." She raised her chin and sent him a steady look. "One learns not to, and one _doesn't_.

"Giles will be buried in the borough cemetery, alongside William," she continued. Then she sighed and cast a sweeping glance around the room. "All this is over, Mr Foyle. I shall place the house into the hands of an estate agent and move to Devon with my sister. Take pleasure in my niece's family. There's nothing further for me here." She rested her hands in her lap and looked across at him. "Do you have children, Mr Foyle?"

"One son. In the RAF." He hesitated. "Annnd... a baby on the way."

Anne Messinger cocked her head and smiled sadly. "Ah. A second marriage?"

"Um. Yes." He lowered his lids, ashamed to meet her eyes when she had lost so much, and had no hope now of rebuilding.

"Your first wife...?"

"Died. Twelve... nearly thirteen years ago. I only recently remarried."

"No stranger to loss, then, on your own account," observed his hostess kindly. "But still young enough to start again. I envy you."

"My wife..." began Foyle, searching for the words before abandoning the task. "I feel myself immensely lucky. Samantha is much younger than I am."

"Then you're a fortunate man indeed, Mr Foyle, to know that you will not be left behind to mourn." Lady Messinger rose and walked to the French windows, where she stood and gazed across the garden.

Foyle found the logic of her words somewhat grim, having learned from heartbreaking experience that a younger wife would not necessarily outlive him.

"The manner of Giles' death was, I suppose, to be expected," Anne went on. "I tried to soothe him, Mr Foyle. But with William's death, Giles gave himself no quarter. You may not think this from your dealings with my husband, but he was as hard on himself as he was on others. He felt that he had driven our son away; and that realisation diminished him."

"Sir Giles would have heard the truth from me," Foyle offered ruefully, "but I was overruled."

Anne Messinger turned back to face him. "Grist to the millstone, Mr Foyle. Our petty, personal griefs amount to nothing in a time of war." Her face took on a look of intense inquiry. "You tell me that his heart stopped? But you don't say 'naturally'. Were you _overruled_ this time, as well?"

Under such a painfully incisive gaze, Foyle felt relieved to have an at-least partially honest reply prepared. "On the contrary, Lady Messinger; this is one occasion when I got my own way with the Department."

His hostess sighed wearily, and turned back from the window to resume her seat. "Then I should be dead also, for my heart stopped four years ago when our son died. Oh, I have tried," she shook her head, "to find a strength of purpose... to pursue my interests, take pleasure in my garden, but... too many sad memories crowd my mind. Giles and I were always so... engaged with the world, Mr Foyle, but now it feels as though the world were slipping from me. My powers of concentration are not what they were."

Foyle tore his gaze up from his shoes to face her, his head tilting in emphasis as his sympathetic eyes met hers. "I'm so sorry, Lady Anne." And there was nothing more that he could, or dared, to say.

...

For the short ride between Sedlescombe and Hastings, Foyle again sat in the back of the Lanchester with Georgie. Once they reached the main road, he saw her dig into the pocket of her overcoat and withdraw an object that appeared to be of glass.

Though only mildly curious at first, Foyle's eyes went wide the moment that he realised that Georgie's object was familiar. In her hand, she held a small glass jar containing—_what the blazes?—_ some white, creamy substance...

"What have you got there, Georgie?" Foyle asked urgently, and in a tone that made Anselm's eyes snap smartly to the rear-view mirror. Foyle sent his driver a sharp glance of irritation that made him wince as their eyes met. The younger man felt a bead of sweat form in his hairline and trickle down the back of his neck. He'd left the girl alone with Mrs Andrews for perhaps five minutes whilst he visited the lavatory.

"This?" Georgie held up the jar innocently. "It was a present from the cook. Home-made, she says. The absolutely last jar of horseradish from this year's batch. And you know, I'm really lucky to get it? She told me that they had a kitchen burglary, but _this_ jar was upstairs in the dining room, and obviously they've tidied things out of there recently for the, erm... you know," Georgie faltered, unwilling to mention the coffin. "Anyway, the cook said nobody there except Sir Giles ever eats horseradish, and I love it on a bit of beef—you know, when you can _get_ any—so..."

Foyle twisted sideways in his seat and plucked the jar from Georgie's startled fingers. "I'll take that," he said. "Strict War Department rules. All gifts to be declared and logged. And, um, confiscated."

"Oh, I say!" protested Georgie, miffed, her eyes stubbornly glued to the jar in Foyle's hand.

But Foyle passed it forwards, out of reach, to Anselm. "You know what to do with this," he instructed curtly, then turned away from both of them to scowl out of the window at the passing scenery.

...

Standing alone now in the room where her husband's coffin lay, Anne Messinger faced the simple pine box, and brought a hand down to rest upon its lid.

She glanced briefly at the menorah, then tugged sharply on the left breast-pocket of her delicately embroidered blouse, rending it from the garment. Turning, her face stricken with emotion, she stumbled towards a stiff-backed chair, and lowering herself onto it with some degree of pain, sank her head into her hands and finally gave in to tears.

The door of the dining room opened quietly, and Barbara entered, crossing at once to lay a gentle hand upon her sister's shoulder. "You'll be all right with us, Annie," she told her softly. "Our garden will be glad of you, and Elspeth's boys will run you ragged. There'll be no time to dwell on sad thoughts when we're back in Devon."

"I wish," sobbed Anne, "I wish... I only wish..."

...

Anselm strolled into the constabulary foyer, fresh from transferring all luggage from the Lanchester to the Wolseley under Miss Rose's curious eye—particularly inquisitive, she'd been, about the large and sturdily-wrapped oblong parcel. Anselm reckoned it was a painting, but his boss had never said, and he (of course) had never asked.

"Mr Foyle?" he inquired unceremoniously of the Cockney sergeant he remembered from the front desk on his last visit.

"In his office," supplied Brooke, jerking his head backwards. His eyes followed the tall figure as it strode confidently through the dividing door into the corridor beyond.

Davis, standing some way back, stayed rooted firmly to the spot and eyed proceedings with a wariness that verged upon alarm.

When the door had closed behind the interloper, Brooke leant in to rest both elbows on the desk and grasped his head between his hands in weary resignation. _Blimey, __**'im**__ again,_ he cringed.

When he looked up, the small, pert figure of a young woman was standing in the station entrance.

"Can I help you, Miss?" Brookie drew himself up tall, smoothing his uniform jacket.

"Hello!" said the figure brightly. "I'm Georgina Rose. Mr Foyle's new driver. I've been told to wait in here, Sergeant...?"

_Well, _mused Brookie's brain, _ain't __**she**__ goin' to be a sight for sore eyes of a mornin'? The old man'll _'_ave a struggle makin' up his mind whether to stay in bed with one or get up and go to work with the other._

"Brooke, Miss," said Brooke's voice in a chivalrous tone that belied his thoughts. "Very nice to meet you. 'Ave a seat back here with Constable Davis. He'll get you a nice cuppa while you wait. Won't you, Davis?"

"But Sarge..." Davis began nervously, then lowered his voice to a hiss, "_'E's _back there... that _bloke..._" his eyes slid sideways toward the corridor.

Brooke was unimpressed. "Yeah, but, he knows who you are now, don't he? You'll be all right. Just don't make no sudden moves."

"Something wrong?" smiled Georgie, bemused by the extraordinary conversation.

"Nothing, Miss." Brooke reassured her, pasting on his brightest grin. "'Cept the constable here's gone all scared of the bogey-man, 'aven't you, Davis?"

Davis' face fought a picturesque battle between pride and nerves before landing on the proud side. "Get you your drink, Miss," he managed sullenly, and made a cautious move in the direction of the kitchen.

...

Foyle was leaning, ankles crossed, against his desk when Anselm entered.

Pushing himself fully upright, he extended his hand. "John? It's been a pleasure."

"Mutual, Sir. Sorry... about that last thing," Anselm grimaced, then shook his boss's hand firmly.

"Well," Foyle replaced his right hand in his pocket. "No harm done, as it happens. Wash it down the sink, next opportunity you get."

He sent his driver a respectful smile. "Be sorry to see you go."

Seeing there were no residual hard feelings, Anselm grew quite talkative by his own standards. "Oh, you know, Sir—might even nip back for a visit some time. Take a run," he shrugged. "I like it here, Sir. Like the seafront, and the fryups. P'raps say hello to Neil again… and just breathe the air. London can be very stuffy. Only if I can swing a bit of leave, mind you."

"Well, if you do, John, look me up."

"I will, Sir. Definitely." Anselm turned and nodded to the sunny-looking blonde who now stood at Foyle's office door. "Afternoon, Mrs Foyle, nice to see you again. I'll just be on my way."

"Goodbye, Mr Anselm," Sam said, her brisk professional demeanour no less affectionate for it as she offered him her hand. "Thank you for looking after my husband."

"Oh, I don't think he needs _me_ to look after him, Mrs Foyle." He gave her a quiet smile. "That's more in your line, I should say."

Anselm exited the station at a fair old pace, managing a parting wave en route to the boss's son's fiancée, curled up like a pedigreed pussycat—he smiled to himself—in a swivel-chair in the back office reading some novel she'd brought. And as he left, he mused that, for an old chap, Foyle was doing pretty well for talent. He resolved to find himself a bird when all this bloody fuss was over. But in the meantime, he was wondering if Neil did fryups in the middle of the day. Licking his lips, he stepped out into the chilly air and strode toward the Lanchester.

...

"Hello, my darling." Sam slid inside her husband's office, and closed the door quietly behind her, never taking her eyes from his.

He watched her mutely as she approached and fed a hand around the back of his head, pulling him in for a kiss. Her other hand skated down the front of his trousers.

"All present and correct, Sir?"

Foyle pulled his body back. "Tsss! Less of that."

Sam pouted. "It's going to be hard enough"—she raised an apologetic eyebrow—"_difficult _enough at home, now Georgie's with us. Just thought a bit of privacy in here... on my last day in post. A fond farewell to..." Sam gestured round the office, "this."

The sight of Sam like this, and in this mood, stirred him mercilessly. Foyle closed one eye and canted his head, weighing up the likelihood of interruption. Hugh Reid's office empty. Anselm departed. Georgie waiting in the foyer. Brooke unlikely to shift from the front desk...

"Milner in?" he asked, as innocently as he could manage.

"No, he's... actually, he's gone with Edie to the doctor's. Just routine, but he was anxious to go."

"Proud father?"

"I should say! Beaming, actually," Sam traced a finger down his lapel.

"Exactly like me, then." Foyle turned Sam so her back was towards him and wrapped her in his arms, nose pressed against her ear. "So. What exactly did you have in mind for your farewell to... this?"

Sam detached herself, turned smartly round and gave a pert salute. Her eyes were aimed beyond his shoulder at the wall. "Stewart, Sir. Samantha. You can _call_ me Sam!"

Foyle smiled. So re-enactment was her game. "I _could_ call you that," he answered, taking her hands in his and fixing his gaze on their joined fingers as he ran his thumbs across her palms. "But also," he told her quietly, "I would have to call you beautiful Samantha, Sweetheart, and Beloved Wife."

Sam grinned, where once she would have blushed. But Christopher apparently hadn't finished.

"Can call you _all_ those things. And bless the day you walked into this office," he told her gently, stroking her fingers. "I can even bless—although it's an entirely selfish sentiment—the circumstance that brought you here to Hastings. And also," he continued carefully, "need to say, um, thank you for some things."

He looked deep into her eyes. "Thank you for your loyalty, enthusiasm and help in my endeavours. Thank you for the brightness and humour that you've brought into my working days. Thank you for the clever and unusual insights that you've lent to every case we've closed. Thhank you for all those things, Sam." He kissed her softly on the cheek and folded her to him, now whispering in her ear. "And thank you for our love, and for bearing the consequences patiently, and for marrying me, and making me a happier man than I could ever otherwise have hoped to be. My darling."

Foyle brought her hands up to his lips and kissed each palm, then raised his eyes to hers, where tears were welling now above her smile, and spilling down her cheeks. Reaching up with both his thumbs, he wiped the tears away, then took her face between his hands and kissed her, long and deep.

"So anyway, Sweetheart," he pleaded with her when at last they pulled apart, "In the short time we've been together properly, we haven't _ever _used this office for other than police business. If we spoil that record now, how well do you imagine I'll be able to concentrate when I come back into work on Monday, and after that?"

Sam dipped her head and gave a little shrug. "Not awfully well, I s'pose. Although I should remind you of that time when you got mildly jealous of me chatting to Brooke and nearly had your way with me up against the door. So I can't _entirely_ understand your sudden scruples, Christopher. And actually," she slid a hand around his neck, "I'd rather _like_ to leave my mark in here. Indelibly. If you can get so jealous of Brooke taking up my time with chatting at the front desk, why shouldn't I be jealous of this office? After today, _it_ will see more of you than _I _do."

"Um. Entirely specious argument, Sam..." he slid a hand around her waist, "but nnnot going to show you up by demolishing it."

Sam mugged annoyance. "Expecting gratitude for that, are you?"

He gave her a conspiratorial smile and reached behind to turn the key that jutted this side of the office door. "How did you plan on our using this 'private time', Mrs Foyle?"

"You're the detective. Read the clues." Sam pressed herself against him, close as she could manage, before shimmying her hips.

He drew in a sharp breath. "This is insanity, Sam," he hissed, "in a station full of people."

Sam gave him a smouldering look, then hooked her forefinger down behind his tie where the two halves of his collar met, and tugged. "You can be sane again on Monday." She tilted her head and pulled him into a long and lovely kiss that made her insides swoop and drew a low rumble of appreciation from her husband.

"You don't give up, do you?" he growled. "One proviso, though,"—Sam could tell now from his tone that she was about to get her way. "Not on the desk. I have to write reports on that desk. Besides, the desk would be—um... what's the word..."

"...an awful cliché?" supplied Sam. "Must say, I tend to agree, my darling. Chair?"

"Nnnot the chair. I have to sit on that and write reports, and look professional to visitors. Besides, the chair's on wheels, and swivels. Not ideal. Need stability for such activities."

"Hmm. Good point." She glanced around. "The filing cabinet?"

"Bit high. And then, of course, it stores the stuff I use for..."

"...writing your reports. I see a pattern in your thoughts, Christopher. How about the floor?"

"MmmWouldn't trust the floor, without a blanket."

"That limits us a bit, then, doesn't it?" Sam sighed. "Oh well, it was a nice idea."

"...unless..." Foyle hesitated briefly, then cocked an eyebrow before steering her towards the wall, "...you don't mind _this._"

"You aren't serious?" protested Sam. "You're THIS nervous of associations sticking to your furniture?"

"MmFraid so. Mmmessy things, associations." Foyle stroked her shoulders, which, with Sam in her mid-height heels, were level with his, and leant in for a kiss, tilting his head to nibble on her jawline. "Your name's Samantha Stewart... Hello Miss Stewart. But I can _call_ you Sam. Welcome to my office, and my life, Sam. Hope you'll like it here."

Sam's eyes widened in mischievous enjoyment. Their stance was now a carbon copy of the day when Christopher had pinned her to the door and complained about her banter with his sergeant. This time, though, she was up against the wall, and felt the dado rail against her shoulder blades.

Her husband dipped his knees, then hauled her skirt and slip around her middle. Sam chuckled fruitily at the lack of hesitation in his businesslike approach.

"Better," he observed. "We want you to be comfortable, insofar as possible, in your work here, Miss St—Sam."

"Well that's a shame, then," Sam complained, "because the dado rail is sticking in my back."

"Naturally, we can't have that," he crooned into her ear, and stripping off his jacket, laid aside his wallet before rolling up the coat and slotting it with care behind her shoulders. "Better now? Sam?"

"Better, certainly," she mugged, "but not what you could call luxury accommodation."

"Times are hard," he told her earnestly, "and so... it seems..." he pinned her wrists against the wall, "am I..." he ground against her, "Sam." He took a deep breath. "So you've been sent to drive me, have you?"

"Yes, Sir," an involuntary shiver took her. "Yes I have. I know the South Downs well, you see. So I can take you…_ooh…_ anywhere you want to go."

"Oh?" Christopher resumed the warm kissing of her neck and jaw, continuing to push his pelvis into hers. "And if I wanted to go... here? Sam?" He thrust against her and his hand sank to his flies to deal with the unwanted layer of clothing separating them.

Sam gulped in mock alarm, "Then I would certainly make sure you got there quickly, by the shortest route, Sir."

"Drive me there? S-sam?"

"Yes, Sir. Get you to your destination with a minimum of bother, and a cheery word along the way." Sam parted her legs to improve his access, and he moved in closer so he stood between her legs. He slid a hand down over her lisle stocking top, slipping his fingertips under the front suspender, then up the inside of her thigh and under her loose knicker-leg.

Sam gasped the instant that his fingers reached their target.

"You're in the driver's seat, Sam." He bent his knees to kiss under her chin. "What happens next?"

"Well, in the absence of a map, you point to where you want to go, I s'pose."

He let out a sharp laugh. "I'd say I'm doing that right now. But if you want a clearer indication..." Foyle shifted both hands underneath her bottom, bent his knees, then straightened them… and Sam felt her feet leave the floor.

"Ohyes!" she panted. "You're doing it again. That lifting thing you do. You're going to hurt your back or something. Whatever would I tell the sergeant on the desk outside, Sir?"

"You'd have to tell him... that you drove me to it." Foyle bounced her on his cupped palms up against the wall, and grinned. "You want to help me, Sam? My hands are full. _Both_ hands." He glanced down meaningfully, then up into her face again. His eyes were twinkling like a naughty schoolboy, and he looked adorably young in that moment.

Sam rolled her eyes and worked her hand in between them, guiding his arousal in behind her loose-crotched satin and then up inside her.

Sure of having reached his target, Foyle relaxed his lift on Sam, and lowered her till they were fully joined.

They both gasped in unison at the raw deliciousness of the sensation. "There," he breathed. "That proves it: I can't go anywhere without you." They shared a look of momentary triumph before locking lips, and Sam's hands flew up to his ears and hair and grasped him greedily as he thrust up inside her, all but slamming her against the wall. The jacket at her back worked like a cushion, and she moved both hands to brace herself against his shoulders as his lifts and thrusts caused her to bounce upon him.

"Aren't you tired?" she whispered urgently, a little worried by his level of exertion, though his arms were firm as ever in manoeuvring her. Shyly, she reached down to feel his biceps through his shirt, and found them bulging hard as apples underneath his cotton sleeve. The thrill of it sent a contraction to her core, and Foyle murmured, "Jesus, Sam, you're going to stop my circulation." Still, he hefted her as easily as a sack of feathers and thrust into her ever faster, till she was panting like a runner, and he sent up a prayer of thanks that she could curb her cries enough to keep their coupling a private affair behind closed doors.

"Sam!" his lips locked to the crook of her neck in an open, sucking kiss, and clung there. He drew back to take a desperate breath, and sobbed, "I'm going to—Sam, I'm going to—" Then he heard her give a little whimper and felt her shudder round him as her fingers closed into a fist around his hair, pulling harshly at the roots. And he was gone in that same instant. Gone. Erupting into her, and gripping her so hard he'd surely leave a pair of bruises where his thumbs dug into the soft flesh of her hips.

He held her close through their spasms of pleasure, open-mouthed and melded to her neck, his breathing ragged as he came down, softening and slipping from her, lowering her gently to the floor, and leaning in to take her lips one final time in a slow, leisurely caress. "You drive me to distraction," he whispered. "Job's yours, Miss Stewart... if you still want it. Think we'll get on... admirably, Sam."

"I hate to disappoint you, Mr Foyle," Sam hugged him tenderly, "but I can't take the job. You see, I fell in love with my boss... and he married me."

"Your boss sounds the most sensible man on earth," Foyle grinned, "and he's so happy to be home for good, that tonight," he told her proudly, "he's taking you and Georgie out to dinner at The Royal Victoria Hotel."

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

_My name is Barbara fforbes-Brown._

Angela Thorne, the character actress who played Lady Messinger in _The French Drop _(S3E1), is probably best known to British viewers for her role as Audrey fforbes-Hamilton's worried-looking friend Marjorie (thanks Doris!), in the long-running comedy series _To the Manor Born._ It amused me to give her a sister with a similar pretentious name in double-f.

…

_...tugged sharply on the left breast-pocket of her delicately embroidered blouse, rending it from the garment._

According to the Jewish mourning ritual of _keriah_, the spouse is one of seven relatives required to rend their clothing and "expose the heart" as an expression of grief. I don't think Anne is Jewish, but I think she's been struggling to suppress her grief for too long, and, being aware of the custom, would do it spontaneously anyway.

...

More soon.

**GiuC**


End file.
